I was running late that morning. It's funny the way everything you meant to do in the morning gets forgotten in that rush when you groggily look at the alarm clock and discover you're half an hour behind schedule. Theoretically, there is still plenty of time to get dressed, because you always set your alarm super early, just in case, but now it's "just in case" and you're fucking up big time. You spend more time in the shower than you figured you did. Maybe it's just because you're running late and you need to wake yourself up, so you're wasting those precious moments under the blast of the water. Maybe it's because you're trying to do twelve things at once, and all of them are only getting partially done.

I had a feeling I was going to screw it up if I didn't write it all down the night before, so I had mapped out the game plan for myself. I had thrown some laundry in last night before I went to bed, and I needed to remember to throw it into the dryer so it didn't get mildewed while I was at work. There's nothing more disgusting than clothes that smell like mold. Well, okay, there are more disgusting things, but this rates pretty high on my list of Disgusting Things. Anyway, I was supposed to throw the laundry in the dryer, make myself a sandwich for lunch, and take a pregnancy test, even though I was pretty sure my period was just late.

I set my alarm every night for quarter to seven, even though I know I will not actually get out of bed until seven o'clock. I just want the advance warning so that I can "sleep in" a bit. So the alarm goes off at quarter to seven, as usual, and I hit the snooze bar immediately to avoid actually hearing Howard Stern's voice, which is undoubtedly talking about gay midgets on trapezes. The alarm goes off again at seven, and I rub the sleep from my eyes.

"Ugh," I mutter, switching the alarm off. I get up, gather my towel and my test and my tampon, toss on my robe, and head for the bathroom. I pee on the stick and get in the shower. The test should be ready by the time I'm done bathing. I shower, get out of the tub, insert the tampon, and check the test. Just as I thought; negative. I toss it out, comb my hair, put in my contacts, and head back to my bedroom to get dressed. I deodorize, throw on my clothes, strap my watch to my wrist, slide my ring on my finger, punch the tiny earrings through my lobes, and head downstairs with my bag and my phone.

Wait a second. My bag's strap is about to snap right off, so I go back upstairs and move everything into a different bag. I head back downstairs.

Why is it 7:30 already?!

I take out the toaster and put the bread in. I decide to throw the laundry in while it's toasting, because otherwise I will definitely forget. I throw the laundry in the dryer and head back upstairs. I get to the kitchen and remember I've bought natural peanut butter and I have to stir the oil back in because it has separated. Ugh. This is a bit of a challenge, as there are 10,000 knives and only one spoon to be found in my apartment. I locate a spoon and stir the peanut butter, spilling oil all over the counter. I uncap the Nutella, smear some on one side of the toast, smear some peanut butter on the other side, and smack the two sides together. I wrap the sandwich in tinfoil and head for the door.

I wrestle my coat out of the closet, despite the valiant attempts of the broom to whack me in the head. I check for my keys and head out the door.

I get to the corner just in time to get on the slowest bus ever. The 42 not only goes off the main drag to pick up residents of the ghetto dwellings, but it also stops every 4 feet to pick up passengers. Needless to say, the bus is packed, and I am running late. We finally pull up to the subway station, and when I cross the street with the rest of the commuters from the bus, people honk their horns at us. Yeah, we're crossing against the light. What're you gonna do about it? I give someone the finger.

I get on the train and manage to snag a seat, since I have walked all the way to the end of the platform and gotten on the very first car. I am just spacing out, as I usually do in the mornings. Several stations go by, and a little girl no more than 5 years old sits down next to me. This is a little odd, as her mother is not standing directly in front of her, wiping her nose and protecting her from The Subway Monsters as most (if not all) mothers on the subway do. She is leaning against me, sleeping. I am tempted to shove her away, as I do to most people who try to sleep on me (especially men), but she's just a kid so I let her sleep. I am starting to wonder if people are looking at me, thinking I'm her mother.

I maintain my indifferent air, but wonder where, exactly, her mother is. There are people standing in front of us now, but none of them seem concerned about this little girl. No one is telling her to sit up straight, or giving her juice, or wiping her nose. Where is her mother?

We arrive at 125th Street, and everyone standing exits the train. The little girl is still sitting next to me, and her mother is still nowhere to be seen. More people get on the train, and the people sitting across from me seem to be giving me dirty looks, looks that say, "Take care of your child! Show some affection, you heartless bitch!" I want to yell, "She's not mine!"

Instead I keep silent and count the stops left to 96th Street. I start to wonder if this child is now my responsibility. I mean, she did come over and sit next to me. She was leaning against me, sleeping on my shoulder. And she's apparently alone, helpless, clutching a little doll... what the fuck am I supposed to do? Where did she get on the train? Why isn't anybody with her? Where can I find a policeman? I'm running late, I don't have time for this!

My mind is racing. I am trying to remember which subway stations have police stations at them. Maybe the one at 86th does. That's not too far out of my way. I can just walk back up to work afterwards... it shouldn't take too long...

God. I'm measuring time in terms of what will happen if I'm late to work, to a job I hate. What kind of heartless bitch am I? This kid is alone and probably scared, and her mother is probably worried sick, and how did she even get here? How can I think about my own problems at a time like this? What is the appropriate response? I am not good in emergencies. I am not good with children. I don't like cops. Oh dear...

At 96th Street a woman by the door with a baby carriage starts calling to someone, and the little girl gets up. She goes over to this woman, who must be her mother, and they get off the train. I also exit the train, heaving a sigh of relief.

I am such a bloody coward.